


//the commander's bitch

by MostlyAMan



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multiple Partners, Painful Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyAMan/pseuds/MostlyAMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NSFW, EXPLICIT : A rough, nasty, anonymous fuck arranged for the Commander's newest toy. Bad language, humiliation, painal.<br/>Request:<br/>"Hey man, have you played the game Mass effect? Because if you have to can you write something with James Vega. It can be with M!Shepard, or the whole crew using him as cumdump, or a bunch of mercs fucking him (dub-con). Seriously everything is a go as long it is hardcore and raw."</p>
            </blockquote>





	//the commander's bitch

The mercenary shifted from side to side, an uneasy furrow in his brow. This was the place he had been referred to-- a seedy, dark corner of Omega, a city-planet with which he was far too accustomed to for his own liking. Nowhere could be considered 'safe', but this side... ah, the memories. In his earlier years, a place to earn extra cash, still much unchanged. As much as he despised to admit it, his manners were no different.  
  
A tip-off on his comm-link, from his smirking Commander.  
  
 _Time is short, Vega. Do whatever'll get that damn scowl off your face. You hear me? These guys'll sort you out._  
  
Confiding in his Commander had been, perhaps, his worst idea in a long time. That he admired him as more than an authority figure got the man laughing, cracked red scars flaring in his cruel mirth. A fist to his face was what he received and when his bloodied head rose, rough lips greeted his own in a filthy kiss, his own blood fed back to him in mocking.  
  
It made him harder than anything in his life.  
  
Shepard was a hard, no-nonsense man. It seemed he conducted his personal life in a similar manner to the way he solved conflicts; with muscle, before the words. He'd dismissed the younger man with ten seconds to leave his sight; Vega scrambled away, head down through the Normandy's clinical halls, praying not to run into any crewmates. He envied the way that the Commander handled Alenko, as if he owned the man-- his hands never seemed to leave him, viciously possessive and somehow...  _tender_  beneath its weight. The way they kissed was sweet and more frequent whenever Vega was present.  
  
He was a fool for being so distracted when so much was at stake, but he simply could not help himself.  
  
Vega knuckled his eyes, scowl repelling those who wandered by him without purpose. His bulk was intimidating, beefy and strong, rendered naught by the man he adored so greatly. Rough voices caught his ears, a rabble of men that he knew had only a single, dark intent.  
  
"You Vega?" One asked, sneering at the marine, who clutched his shotgun to his body possessively.  
  
James was quiet a moment, surveying them.  
  
"Oi! We asked you a question!"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, that's me. You're the guys...?"  
  
They smirked between themselves-- there were just two of them, Human, by the looks of things. The man that spoke first had a vile wound marring his face, as if he had taken several blasts directly to it, burning away his hair and leaving deep scars. He shifted, pulling his shoulders up and chest out, puffing himself up for James.  
  
"Shep said he had a sick little faggot that needed breeding. You the one?"  
  
Vega darkened, lip quirking back in a small snarl.  
  
"Fuck off!"  
  
The bulkier man pressed forwards, invading his personal space. He smelt of oil, sweat and laser clip discharge, a real man's man type, and pressured Vega back against the crates he lingered in front of until there was nowhere to escape. A tattoo covered most of his shaved head, of a screeching skull encased in black flame, split by scars of battle in violent purple lines. His breath was heavy with mouth-breathing and alcohol and when he crushed their mouths together, a thick hand wrenched Vega's mouth open to invade it with his tongue, pushing spittle in to mingle with the younger man's.  
  
Perhaps he should have resisted. So half-heartedly was it that he tried to push him away that the other closed in, boxing him against the surface as his face scrunched up and fists beat without power against a mountain of muscle and grit-- they came apart audibly, leaving Vega red-faced and panting, scowl refusing to raise. A hand was at his cock, groping roughly without thought of his pleasure, merely sizing him up and with the way the tattooed man grinned, he was satisfied with what he found.  
  
"You ever been bred, kid?"  
  
"Wh... What?"  
  
The scarred man burst out laughing, loud and piercing and elbowed the tattooed man. They chuckled, dark and low.  
  
"The good Commander told us he found us a cock-hungry slut on his own damn ship, disgracing his name. That true, faggot?"  
  
The word burned James, darkening his cheeks further. _Faggot_... Bandied about so often by his Commander. He loved the way it made Vega squirm as if he could retreat into his power armour. Hissed it on missions into his comm-link. Whispered it into his ear in mess. Anything to get a rise from his hunky subordinate, it seemed. He looked away from the mercenaries, upper lip pulling back in disgust he knew he should have felt.  
  
"You got the wrong guy."  
  
Tattooed guy didn't get the message. He groped again, lewdly grinding his bulge against Vega's captive piece; the merc was hard in his combats and it pulled James' eyes down, flicking between what little he could see in his invaded space and the man's leer. God, he knew he was lying and it felt fucking awful, but the adrenaline was filtering down to his cock and he stirred under a vice grip.  
  
"No, man, I'm serious--"  
  
BANG.  
  
A heavy backhand to his rugged face snapped his head aside, so sudden that it made his ears ring.  
  
"Don't you fucking lie to us! You know what Shep'd do to you if he heard you weren't being good?"  
  
There were meaty fists on his bullet vest, tearing the garment apart right there. Beneath was little more than a grey crew-cut shirt, stained with age and sweat, stretched fit to bursting over his heavy frame, soon groped by another set of hands that pinched his nipples so that he winced and massaged muscle appraisingly. He was manipulated, pulled into the tattooed man's bulky arms, pressed against his chest to inhale the scent of his body and gear and was pulled back a step for the scarred man to slip behind him. A more wiry set of arms wrapped around him and stripped down his vest, wrenched shotgun from cloying hands and discarded it, resuming his molestation of the young marine's body. It seemed only momentary, as he was prying apart his belt and tugging down his combats in the space of a flash, a hand pressing down the line of his powerful back and down further into the cleft of his round, muscular ass.  
  
James tried to thrash his body, but it only played him deeper into the hands of the mercenaries. Tattooed at his front, playing with his cock through his trousers and raping his mouth with his tongue and scars at his back, pressing spit-slicked fingers at a sweaty, sticky hole that tensed against his assault before relenting. He groaned, a broken half-sob into the burliest man's mouth, meeting his lips with his own though they struck his teeth more than his intended goal. His hands, idle, sought the tattooed man's body more for something to hold on to as opposed to anything else, and were directed to his belt, which he unbuckled faster than he'd ever known himself to do in his life. Tattooed's cock-stench hit his nose, a musk so strong and raunchy that his own throbbed in reply; he felt hair wet with sweat, cock slick from a prior conquest, the familiar sensation of congealing spunk and cunt-damp made him groan again, just as fingers penetrated him.  
  
A more high-pitched sound than the last tore from his throat and dark eyes shot open with shock as he wasn't even eased in-- roughly finger-fucked, his tight hole protested and he tried to, vocally, but all he managed to do was drool between hot mouths and sound so pathetic that the scarred man simply laughed, pushing harder.  
  
His grip on the man turned into something akin to a cling, one arm trying to brace himself against his body as he tore his head away to bury it in his shoulder. Vega's knees grew weak and he mewled in pain and Scars withdrew his fingers, granting reprieve for only a beat-- they were replaced with his cock, shunting at a too-tight hole with only the residue of his last fuck and a gob of spit. He felt his body strain to accept and he sobbed another wail into the tattooed man's patterned trap.  
It got no better. James was forced into a scouring, brutal fuck that made him sob openly, wilting cock jacked painfully at his front whether he liked it or not. The scarred man rode him harder than an Afterlife bar slut, in plain view of any who dared to walk past the scene. Rutting men were left be, especially when their guns were so damn big-- it was accepted, a silent agreement between the mercenaries and those they associated with.  
  
His sobs had died down, to something resembling a whimper, right up until the moment that Scars' pace exploded and with a feral roar in Vega's ear; an unloading of hot, slimy, thick mercenary spunk in his abused hole burned him and he wept again, left to stand on his feet while the men switched over.  
  
As brutally as before, but greased by the other merc's cum, the tattooed man took his turn with Vega. His cock was easily an inch thicker, splitting him further, obscene, until each outstroke was dragging the marine's tight flesh with it. He fucked harder, meaner, heavier until Vega was weak, leaning completely on the scarred man. When he drew out all the way, he slapped the beefy young man's ass, pulled his buttocks apart and hooted at the sight of a ruined, sloppy rosebud that was yet to even be finished with.  
  
The second load was worse than the first and worse, they didn't stop. Trading the Commander's finest bitch between them, he was reduced to little more than a gaping, thoroughly-used hole with a man attached, snivelling like a downtrodden whore.  
  
How Shepard laughed.


End file.
